His Name is not Amelia
by 20th Century King
Summary: It didn't matter what the rest of the world saw; having breasts and curves didn't make him a woman. Slight hints of AmeWan, unrequited RusAme.


Some say it happened from supernatural causes; that perhaps England had opened his spell books one drunken night, or Russia had cast a curse eighteen years ago in retaliation to the Cold War's outcome. Some say it happened from more mysterious causes; that perhaps it's a result for example from one of the alien experiments often discussed about in film and movies. Some say it happened as a direct consequence of simply being what they are; that perhaps demographics simply have shifted within to a point wherein a change upon the incarnate's behalf was necessary.

Whatever reasoning there happened to be, the outcome of it couldn't be denied—America, for what reason could be supplied, was now female.

"I'll get back to normal eventually though, right? Right?" The sudden increase in the pitch of his tone made his words sound shriller than intended, yet the blond remained surprisingly composed in his new form. Of course, it seemed so only in appearance—in his headspace the words "it's all just a dream, it's all just a dream" repeated over and over like a broken tape, as if the mantra was the only thing keeping him sane. And maybe it was; America refused to swivel his gaze to his sides, fearing even the slightest glance of hair that now reached his shoulders than remaining cropped short as he remembered cutting it previously.

"Unearthing the cause of this would be a brilliant start…" England's tone was exasperated, worn from the shock that had passed as fleetingly as it came. It wasn't something he came to expect—all he wished to do was drop by and see how his former colony was faring, as he hadn't answered his calls concerning the meeting that was supposed to be held today. After he had a brief moment of flabbergasted stammering—with some pointing and staring here and there—his nerves had eventually calmed down enough to assess the situation with more reason. Someone had to remain composed, and considering how close America seemed to be reaching his breaking point (for indeed, the mantra had manifested into soft but hurried mumbles by now), the Englishman supposed he may as well do it for the both of them. "Are you certain you haven't caused anything to anger the fey? They can be rather bothersome with their tricks."

The laugh that escaped the American sounded forced, shaking with an instability that caused England's brows to furrow upon hearing it. "The fey, Art? Seriously? You could've picked something more substantial, more believable, and you chose to recommend the _fey_—"

"Well what else am I supposed to assume?" Of course he couldn't expect America to believe him, but it seemed to be the most_ reasonable _conclusion his mind could draw to date. "Besides, it's not as if your situation would be believable under normal circumstances. Look at yourself! I mean, you happen to be a—"

"Don't start."

"—excuse me?"

"I said, _don't start_." The irritation in America's own voice had grown as he snapped those two words out once more. Eyes narrowed as he looked up—by all that was supposed to be right with the world, he shouldn't be looking up!—at the Briton, and he hesitantly raised his arms to cross them over his chest. The action couldn't be completed in the last second, however, the slightest contact with his newfound acquisitions causing him to jolt his hands back down to his sides as he clenched at his seat tightly. "Don't you dare call me what I think you were about to call me, 'cause I'm not, okay? This is all just some weird, kooky hallucination, that's got to be it, I've finally snapped from all the workload and this is a result—"

"America, please, _calm down_—"

"I'm calm!" The words were delivered with a shrillness that had the American internally wince. "I'm fine, completely calm and in control with myself! I mean, why shouldn't I be? 'Cause it's not like I've got a meeting to attend to, and it's not like there's anything preventing me from going there, definitely nothing that's got to do with suddenly being inches shorter or having flabby things on your chest or waking up and finding _there's nothing between your goddamn legs_—"

"_America_."

England's tone carried to it a sharp, commanding force that had the panicking blond cut his run-on sentences short. It wasn't out of fear, however—rather, the word that had been uttered out caught his attention.

"… Alfred, Art. No need to be formal when it's just the two of us, right?"

A long pause permeated, as the unsaid uncertainties steadily pulled down at the corners of America's mouth.

"… America." England repeated with a slight cough. "I… understand this may be difficult for you right now, but you simply can't allow yourself to panic. What needs to be done is assessment; a careful observance of the situation at hand, and the best way to deal with it for the meantime while we search for a cure. And we can't have that if you happen to be in a bloody fit, do you understand?"

The disappointment doesn't leave America's eyes, but he managed to laugh out dryly, "Keep calm and carry on, huh. I understand where you're trying to go with it, though… "

He let out a long sigh and dipped his head forward a bit, and reached up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Normally he'd have run a hand through his hair to ease his frustration, yet the mere sensation of feeling suddenly lengthy strands of gold brush over his shoulders struck him with a definite sense of _wrong_, and brushing them would have only made it worse.

"How long's this supposed to last, anyway? I mean, you can at least give an estimate, right?"

"Considering I have yet to decide on what caused this, what makes you believe I'd know the answer to that?"

"Fair point, fair point… ugh, though. Tell me I can at least skip out on the meetings for the meantime." He couldn't meet the world, not when he looked like this.

"Only for today. I wouldn't think you'd be the type to allow a little problem like this to affect your work relations."

"… as if it could do anything else." What would the rest of the world say, though? What would China say, or even Russia? The mere question brought an uneasy twist to the pit of his stomach. For the sake of doing business, though, he supposed there was no choice. Worsening his image simply would not do and he had no intention of allowing it to dip down that far. "I guess there's only one thing left to decide on… specifically, about clothes—"

"Ah, yes… I suppose you would need some fixing up, am I right? Your clothes do appear to be too big for your size now… well, not to worry. We'll find you a _dress _that's perfectly suited for your tastes—"

A dress? This brought the American to raise an eyebrow, a judgmental look crossing his expression. Surely, England should have known better than to get him that. Under what circumstances would he, to begin with? Unless a bet had been lost, America could not fathom the idea of having to don such clothing in the first place.

Dresses were mostly associated with those of the female gender.

America, on the other hand, wasn't a woman.

Nothing was going to change that.


End file.
